


but as it is (and it is)

by AceQueenKing



Series: Equality Auction Fics 2020 [1]
Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Making Up, Overworking, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Persephone could have chosen better places to try to give up the drink than Hermes' old bar, but the company was meant to distract her from wanting a damn drink.Unfortunately, the company is dull, and then, to make matters worse, her husband goes and shows up in Hermes' old bar...
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Hadestown)
Series: Equality Auction Fics 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933576
Comments: 1
Kudos: 62





	but as it is (and it is)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doandhope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doandhope/gifts).



> For the ever delightful doandhope! Apologies, this went uh, a bit longer than it should have, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. 
> 
> Written for the [Equality Auction](https://equalityauction.dreamwidth.org/profile). 
> 
> Title is from Mitski's "Two Slow Dancers":  
>  _It would be a hundred times easier  
>  If we were young again  
> But as it is  
> And it is..._

Persephone holds her little secret 'tween her fingers. Still got the cap on the flask, on account of her hand shaking a bit. It hurts her, staring at the bottle. She wants it so bad she can taste it from memory alone, the pleasant burn of whiskey-rye. She tries to concentrate on other things, simpler times. Tries to think of mama, 'fore mama left her to her pity party and her drinking. Thinking of that parting makes her feel sour; she tries something else. She closes her eyes and tries to mentally picture fields of grain, mama's crowning glory, in hopes of distracting herself. Only able to picture wheat and grapes and the products thereof; Persephone growls deep in her throat, a sound that would frighten anyone else who dared to step into the lady's room of Hermes little run-down bar. She's hiding out in the lil' ladies room for the same reason she came to Hermes' old hole in the wall in the first place: to be _distracted_. It hasn't helped thus far: the music itself being loud enough to make her want a drink to make it less ornery a beat, the people vapid and simple enough she wants a sip to make them seem more interesting, or make herself more dulled.

Persephone's trying, you see, to give it up. Trying real hard to give up her little secret sauce. Been her balm for the last couple centuries, when things had gone so badly. _Just takes time for the cracks to show_ , that's what her mama clucked under her tongue, and mama has been a harbinger of wisdom in most things. Saw all the issues that bubbled up between herself and himself, yes sir. From the wedding day on, what had mama said? _He'll bleed you dry. Run you ragged_. _Men like him ain't got the capacity to keep lovey-dovey for long._ _Give it time and you'll forget every love-soaked word he ever whispered to you, and you'll crave them so hard you'll burn yourself to ash trying to get him to love you again._ Ma had gotten the timeline off a bit, but maybe not the burning.

'Course, mama ain't _totally_ right, she thinks, dragging one finger over the flask and doing her best to ignore just how much that she wants a fucking drink, wants so _badly_ to open this flask and bring it to her lips and have a little bit of the fruit of the vine, just a little tipple, just a little bit. Mr. Hades has made her life a living hell, but he is as likely to bring her to the heaven's as the hells. Ma's not like her, not one to have much hope. Mother nature, is, as the children say, a bit merciless; like himself. More liable to leave you to starve than lead you to a bounty; Persephone's always been the softer touch 'tween the rough edges of life and death.

Like the drink, he is a mighty hard man to shake off her shoulders. Finds herself forgiving him, even knowing maybe he doesn't deserve it, even knowing he'll lock her out of that office and his very own heart again soon enough, even knowing that if she fails to finish off her reliance on the drink, that he will continue to poke fun at it, sting her with little passive-aggressive nettles that pierce her skin.

 _Have a drink why don't you_? booms through her mind. Easy to be like that, she wagers, to accuse her of taking to her self-medication; he has his own ways of coping that do just as much damage.

Still, spite's a powerful motivator, and she manages to break away from the draught she craves. That's the trouble with being up here so long; gives one plenty of time to obsess and ruminate. Absence makes the heart grow fragile.

She tucks the flask back in her dress - can't quite bring herself not to carry it around, her own personal security blanket - and crawls out of the toiletries, goes back to the bar. Seems like a joke, a woman trying to play sober in a bar, but she isn't quite strong enough to sit here all alone and mama's a long ways off, caught in her own mysteries aside, and Hermes, well, Hermes is her only friend and Hermes is at the bar and thus, so is she. 

Hermes smiles when he sees her back from the bathroom, her obvious unhappiness proof enough she has resisted temptation.

"Proud of you, sister-girl," Hermes says. "Some of my finest water?"

She flips her hand to say _go ahead_ , lacking the energy to do much more than that. Closes her eyes. Easier, of course, during the days, to ignore the craving. She's got work to do during the days, and that keeps the darkest urges at bay.

Nights, now? Well, those are a real bitch. Dark and warm enough in the summertime to remind herself of home, and the man waitin' for her there.

Persephone closes her eyes, ignores the pulse of the crowd as she sips at Hermes' water. Hermes, being a nice sort of fellow, has added a copious amount of ice to her drink, and the liquid shock of it helps her pretend that maybe, maybe it could be vodka she was drinking instead. She downs the water and passes the glass back to him.

"Thanks," she says, and her voice sounds scratchy. "Another."

Maybe if she pretends hard enough, it'll be alright.

* * *

Hades stares at his paperwork. The paperwork does not stare back, itself being an unliving thing.

Hades, generally, has enjoyed paperwork. Paperwork is a simple thing, black and white. Uncomplicated. Accounts to be billed. Contracts to be reviewed and signed. Measures to be made, judgments to be done. It was a simple thing, an easy thing, and the badly-timed dice of fate has guaranteed himself a purview that ain't never stop providing him work to occupy his restless mind.

Always souls coming to his forges. Always contracts to source, always work to be done. If it were a slow day in terms of new arrivals, then there was plenty of maintenance to be done. If there was little maintenance to be done, there was paperwork to organize. And so on, and so forth. Hades, himself born with nothing but his own destiny in his hand, had long been used to turning to work to quiet the discomfort that came part and parcel with his crown. Rock and stone, iron and steel—all occupies the mind.

But no thought occupies him so much as the woman he had set himself to the work to avoid, most particularly his attempting to ignore her absence, which hung in the air, even now, heavy as stone. The world was pain, in her absence, and if he stands still for so much as a second, he can remember all the ways she occupies him wholly in her presence: the smell of her hair, richer than jasmine or myrrh; the pout of her red lips, made sweeter with the soft huff of her laughter; her laugh's bright boldness, which is not ladylike in the least of ways. The way she smells like the bright petrichor after rain; that scent clings to his chambers long after she leaves them, but even when he allows himself the dreadful indignity of huffing at her pillows, he feels no relief, no succor. Only an absence that reminds him of nothing so much as the abyss, and scares him as much as anything he's ever felt in the history of the world, of which he has seen the vast majority of the history thereof.

The problem, now, is that such lusters and jewels that he had turned to escape her absence—well, they aren't quite working way they used to.

Was the girl who was at fault, most grievous fault, the fault entirely his but wrapped up in her also: seeing the other woman on the line, her face placid now that her tears had gone to the Acheron, produces in him nothing but a spike of anxiety, reminding him of the thinness of the ice of his marriage, all the cracks underneath. He can not look at her on the line and keeps his maudlin regret far from her. He sees her only from the cracks in his office door. Never up-close, for guilt-bile rose up in him whenever he looked at her, and a king does not apologize, not to workers and certainly not to girls who had bet their lives and lost them accordingly. There is nothing to be done for the songbird. Still, the sight of her robs him of the pleasure of overseeing his work. He no longer dawdles in his strolls across his faculties and facilities: he keeps his head high, and refuses to look at the machines, at the shades who power them, lest he see her face.

But she has done enough damage even faceless, nameless.

He finds little interest in any of the fossils of the dead. Sending souls to Hadestown no longer provides him joy, for in each he sees the Orpheus' of their lives, the people left behind that clung to their departed mists. Contrary to popular opinion, contrary to even the words muttered by his most grievous wife, Hades is not a man cleft of stone. The memories of the boy were too recent and too tender to render his most important work anything but a duty. He keeps his dealings with the dead only to what must be done.

Nor did he enjoy paperwork anymore. Again, entirely the fault of the girl, and the girl's fault, entirely his own. Her contract sat at the top of a heap; he stares at it with guilt in his heart. To sort it, he needs to make a decision as to where the girl will be bound. But he did not and does not sort it. He could not, would not sort it. To decide her ultimate fate—to send her to the heavens, or the hells—seems both impossible and allegorical, all at once. He cannot figure out her final destination: damned for Orpheus' choice, saved for her faith? He does not have the ability to process just what must be done, so he turns his back upon his work, ignores it.

He wants—well, he knows what he wants. He cannot have it. He thinks of his wife, her name carefully unthought because to name her was to ache all the more for her, for what he would not have. But her smirk flashes in his mind whenever he closes his eyes, and suddenly Hades is only a man, and a man well aware he is without his pleasures: his wife in his arms, a tipple at his side, and an un-interesting board game spread out before them, some little human trifle he'd brought for the sheer purpose of seein' his wife smile. Misses that smile more than anything; the burst of stubborn male pride that beat in his chest, thick with love, whenever he'd managed to make her smile. Had been a rare enough sight in recent years. 

But there was not such pleasure to be found, not for...He closes his eyes, notched the abacus that he kept only in his mind. Four months, six days, twenty-three hours. Too long, and yet any attempt to shorten it would certainly light his wife's not-at-all long fuse. She'd made it more than clear such was akin to lighting a dynamic stick, and he has no desire to blow up their marriage any more than he already had.

He opens his eyes. The work remains. The work feels exhaustively gigantic, as wide as his wall, as large as the world itself, almost as deep as the void that his wife left in her wake. The decisions he has to make were too large to handle, too mighty a struggle to name. He needs a distraction, but there are few in the underworld. Few, perhaps, in the world available to King Hades, despite his lofty throne.

The work he has counted on to occupy his unquiet mind is no longer soothing. The pleasure of the flesh is a no-go; to ask his wife was to risk her ire, and to ask any other would be to risk her fury. He would not profane his wife like that, not on the ground so tender and new. Their kind inevitably gossiped and word would inevitably slip back to his wife, bring fresh tears to a face he hated to see cry.

And he has made her cry, he knows, enough.

Still, perhaps a trip to the surface could provide some pleasure. He could buy a newspaper, always entertaining to see the mortal's attempts at industry; perhaps have a hot meal at Hermes' old bar. He'd ask the messenger for whatever news there was of his wife—such would bring comfort to his mind late in the night, give him something new to imagine her doing when he closed his eyes. If nothing else, the food would get a needed task done, and the walk would, perhaps, do him good.

He stands, brushed his sleeves. Grabs at his coat. He walks out of his office, closing the door behind, and he makes his way to the door, telling himself that he won't seek out his wife with every step - that he will not endanger something so new. He would not go for even a distant glance.

And with every step, he almost believes himself. 

* * *

"Hermes," she murmurs; he raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, sister-girl?"

She holds out her glass. "Just ice, this time." She shivered. The night feels too hot, and for a brief, horrible moment, she is reminded of Hades' dear little town. She wants terribly to throw up, wants to drown her emptiness in the entire fancy top-shelf of Hermes' bar. Her man could afford to pay the tab, after all.

"Sister," he says, with a soft sigh. "I hope you're gettin' close to the eye of this storm." He slides over a glass pleasantly full of ice and Persephone smiles with gratitude and relief. Hermes has always been a nice'un.

"I'm workin' on it," she mutters, her mouth on her glass. She picks out one small crushed cube, gently suckles it. A bright spark of pure water melts into her mouth, and she swishes it over her mouth, focuses on the sensation. And for a moment, that works. She does not want to drink anything more than this.

"How's the boy?" She dares to ask. Shouldn't have, because asking this is always trouble, but Persephone does. Hermes pauses, hesitates.

"It's...a tragedy," he offers, slowly. "Takes time to heal from that."

She hasn't seen hide or hair of Orpheus in many a day. But she knows the feeling.

"I'm watchin' over him," Hermes says, his voice unusually fierce. "Not the first broken heart I've nursed." He looks, pointedly, at her. She rolls her eyes back at him. And she has a good cutting remark on her lips, truly she does, but then Hermes' door opens and her god-damn husband walks through the door, a newspaper under his arm. She watches him with wide-eyed horror, and any such quick words are quick indeed to fly from her mouth, forgotten in the horror of the moment.

She ain't sure if she's more horrified that he's here, or that he doesn't even notice she is, too.

* * *

Hades handles the human world as he always has handled a task: with unerring focus. He buys the newspaper from a closing newsstand, where an old man stares at him with a little discombobulation in his eyes, already feeling the pull of Hades proper on his soul. Hades, in a fouler mood, may have taken him, just to have a soul to bring home; today, he gives the man the remainder of his time upon the upper world, only smiling and taking his paper.

The urge to go to his wife's home away from his home is overwhelming, but he does not turn, does not even allow his boots the pleasure of turning toward that old greenhouse. There is trouble in going to such places; even if he were to get a glimpse of her there, he would likely encounter her mother, who has as to this point never been his biggest fan and who, as to this point, will be most unlikely to tolerate his presence. He has never been good at knowing when the mother is present, or the daughter; they both go around the world spreading their gifts so often. He isn't entirely sure the daughter, his unnamed wife, is entirely likely to be kind in her reception anyway.

He has not, he knows, been entirely welcome. She has made no secret of such. He may only pray that he will be considered so in several month's time, when the time comes to spread his season.

But the winter is still far away.

So, instead, he walks down to Hermes' bar, seeking only a moment's blissful mercy. Hermes', messenger that he has always been, tends to run a way-point, as it were, between the mortal and the divine. Not uncommon for a god to drop by, and most certainly, he is aware, his wife is something of a regular. Not that he has come here out of the possibility that he may, for but one moment, see her. Not at all. He almost believes himself.

But either way, there will be a cold draft and perhaps a quiet nook, and that's enough to distract him for a hard day's work. If distraction from such can exist. His job is not one, as such, that allows him to take much of a break. This trip will change little. His sorely-missed wife will be in his thoughts still, the sorely-gained songbird still at the top of the pile. For a moment, he waivers at the doorway: to enter, or to not? He presses his lips into a firm grimace. He is hungry. He has come so very far. A bit foolish to come so far and not eat a bite.

He closes his eyes and braces his shoulders for bravery he shouldn't need to feel. And then he opens the door, and does not allow himself to scan the room, not yet. He settles at a table on the edge of the room, in the shadows: such is his preference, himself not looking to announce himself in any way. He folds out the paper, snaps his fingers. Hermes will come, he is sure, in due time.

And then a voice that is _not_ Hermes goes and throws all his good intentions away.

"You!" The sharpness of a voice booms out. A familiar voice, that. A voice that, when honeyed, has shaken his legs many a time. But she is not pleased now. He barely has time to look up before his wife has stormed over to him, grabs his hand and whips his freshly-purchased paper away from him. His wife, his most precious wife, folds it furiously in her fingers, folds her nimble fingers around it, and purses her lips. Looks like she expects him to pull her out the door, and, he realizes, such is not entirely her fault for supposing. He swallows, holds out a hand.

"Sit down," he says, for lack of anything better to say. Such should at least show her that he has no interest in spiriting her back to the train, though he wants to. Already the ache within him is a powerful thirst; his hand itches to take hers. That being the most almighty problem with immortal love: it itches beyond all measure. Himself wants nothing so much as relief, and holding her hand would provide such.

But with the way she is huffing and puffing, staring at him as if he is a viper who has crossed her doorway, well, he takes the path of a more obstinate man, don't allow himself to reach for a hand she ain't likely to give. Mr. Hades has his dignities.

"You promised," she says, reedy-voiced; upset, _truly_ upset, sorrowful in a way she rarely is. He frowns.

"Promise will be kept," he offers; holds out both his hands. Peace offering, that. "Just...needed a bite to eat."

"You got a pot and pan," his wife spits, crossing her arms. His wife knows better than anyone that Mr. Hades is at best a meager cook. "Million little slaves who could whip you something up for you."

"Wasn't in the mood for that," he drawls. This is his wife, always: furious hellcat, pushing him on the defensive before he can even explain why he's gone and done what he's done. Times there are when such is a welcome attitude -there's a great joy in seeing her famous temper come down on _someone else_ — and times there are, too, when such is right likely to just make him ornery, such as when her infamous temper crashes down upon _himself_.

"Just wanted a little night air." He snaps his fingers for Hermes, who turns his head the other way selectively; doesn't want to be forced to pick sides in the fight. Hades sees his neutrality, and Hades will remember it. "Ain't a sin, that."

"You ain't come for me?" A slight tremble; weakening. She is unusually delicate, his girl. He wants to grab her shoulders, ask: _what's wrong with you_. But he don't do that, because to do so is to risk pissin' her off further, and he has pissed her off entirely too much in the last few years to chance such now.

"No," he says instead. Just the one word.

They sit in silence for a solid several minutes. Mr. Hades reads and re-reads Hermes' little menu, which is all of five items. Hermes doesn't come over; Hermes must not want much of a tip tonight, he thinks.

"Was going to ask for word of ya," he offers. He was. "But to see you in the flesh, well..." Hades smiles. Hades has a smile that, while not rated highly by most goddesses, has always been held in high regard by his most genteel wife, when she is one of her kindly moods. 

Her mouth, pursed, suggests that she is not in a mood to be pliant to his charms at this present joint and venture. He purses his own lips, mirroring her for half a second, then, out of stupid pride and contemptible frustration, he slams his fist into the table. Persephone rolls her eyes; Hermes jumps. The entire bar goes, appropriately, _silent._ "Could I get some service please?" He bellows. 

"For fuck's sake—" His wife mutters under her breath like he is embarrassing to her, she who he has picked off of countless dirty floors blitzed so sky-high she is liable to know neither her name nor his own, and the idea of himself being considered such an embarrassment sours him further.

"Yes?" Hermes asks. His voice is quiet. "What?" 

"Whiskey sour for me," he says; he looks at Persephone's drink, still sitting on the counter. Nothing but ice in it, so clearly she's sucked the marrow out of that bit of blood, so to speak. "Another of what she's having for her." 

"Don't order for me," his wife spits. "Just a water, Hermes."

So, she wants to be stone-cold sober. Well. That's a change. He almost says such, but thinks better of it, and opts to keep his trap most securely shut. Safer that way.

Persephone looks at him hard for a long moment. Then she looks away, toward the floor. He follows her gaze; ain't much going on out there, truth told. Usual story: young people and old chit-chatting amongst friends, spreading the local gossip and the local word of our lady, her blessings most evident in the drinks sipped on such an occasion.

"It's good to see you," he says, trying to dissuade her anger; ain't right for her to be so angry when he has not sinned nor transgressed against her, when he has offered to buy her a cold drink and offered her his warmest smile to boot.

"I'm sure." His wife is at her most snappish, and ignores his kindness. He opens his hand, closes it. Hermes puts two drinks on the table: a whiskey for him, and something clear and odorless for her. Vodka, most likely. He holds up his drink. She does not return the salute. 

"To our health," he suggests. She just shakes her head. Cups her hands around her drink. He tosses down half his whiskey sour in one great, wide firey gulp. His wife doesn't touch hers, just holds onto it real tight. "Drink up," he says, soft. The look she gives him to such a suggestion—a suggestion that he makes only to assuage any guilt on her behalf, mind, because he has never approved of the high that is his wife's most sacred desire—well, that look would be liable to start a blight or two, was she of the mood. 

"Fuck you," she says, her voice strained. 

"Now now," he snaps back. "Not in front of witnesses." 

She gives him a long sigh. Says nothing, looks into her drink. A tear rolls down her cheek—he watches such, mesmerized. It is a rare thing, for his wife to cry. Tends to change his whole tune; he has never been a fan of her tears. It mutes his anger, such as it is; he puts a leash on that old dog, and puts it to heel after a few moments.

"What's wrong?" He says, his voice as gentle as he can make it. Was a time in the past when she found his voice nothing but most gentle and comforting, when he could let rumble on whatever such work he was undertaking at the moment and have her head draped upon her chest. Such memories are long past, and even something so wonderful as Orpheus' music seems unlikely to keep them together for long. 

"It's water," she says, quiet, match-stick quiet, the sort of quiet that ignites every bit of his blood in concern. "Been water." She clears her throat. "Bout a week. Just water."

"Persephone," he says; soft that, too, soft as the night itself sliding past the day. "You ain't drinking?" Now Mr. Hades has not been blind to his wife's habits, and he knows better than most how much she has been on the bottle. He has kept, in that mental abacus, a close count of exactly how much of her time has been spent lurching from one high to another, finding her mind anywhere so long as it is far away from him. And he knows when she makes such an effort to go without her high, without the drink—it is an effort that is not, entirely, for herself.

Wordlessly, he holds out his hand. "I didn't—"

"I know," she says, a bit too sharp, but she holds his hand none-the-less. And that, in and of itself, is a victory.

* * *

She is worn out. Persephone feels like nothing so much as a husk, with all her corn long picked and long gone. She is tired. She is so bloody tired. Her husband reaches out, takes her hand, and she dares to look at him. 

And what she sees is a man who loves her. 

"Been relying on the old vices too long," he says, and anger builds in her, as it always builds too easily right now, but he puts her ire at rest surprisingly fast. "Both of us." 

"Huh," she drawls. _So you're admitting fault now?_ threatens to fall out of her mouth, but such is unlikely to start anything but the most flammable of arguments, so instead she silences it, drinks her water, which is cool and wet and nothing else, no matter how much she wishes it was. 

"Been having a hard time," he says, quiet. "With the work." 

Now Persephone imagines there are reasons for such, many of which lie in his own guilt, and she will not inquire about such things. Miss Persephone might be a mean little wife, but she is tired, and she is not going to go into that girl, or any of their other snipes. If he is here, it is proof enough his attention is not there. So as such, she does not say a word, and instead just squeezes his hand, in a mute sort of sympathy that doesn't make either of them feel any better but certainly doesn't make either of them feel any worse.

"Truth was, had to get out of there." Her husband's free hand drums on the table: _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_. Different beat from his old _la-la_ 's, but no less reliable a beat. People's songs changed, of course; hers, too, had changed from what it was when she was a sprightly young thing. "That office. That place."

He does not say why, whether it be his guilt or his loneliness. He simply continues to hold her hand. Fumbles with his drink with his free one, wrinkles his nose in a thought process that Persephone has found charming at certain points in her life. Her husband has always had an expressive face when he is having a think, and was a time in her life she liked to watch the shift in his emotions that flashed across his eyes.

"Should I get rid of this?" He says, making a swish-swish with his fingers over the whiskey.

"Do what you want," she says. Her voice sounds flat, even to her own ears. Hades frowns, tipples it all in one shot. She smells it on his breath and the hunger for it is something fierce for her, so she looks away. Hermes takes it and doesn't wait around long enough for him to get a second drink; gives her a _look_ , too, on his way back to the kitchens, the sort of look that says _have patience_ wordlessly. He'd brush her shoulder, old Hermes would, 'cept her husband is likely to take such as an _offense_ upon his property, because her husband is an old fool liable to think such pig-thoughts.

"You look tired," he says, soft; there's careful concern written in that.

"Thanks," she says, a bit too sharp; when his face cracks in response, she dials it back. "Hard, you know. Trying to change." Not like himself ever does much; she's the seasonal one in the relationship. Always comes to him, not the other way around. 

"Hm." He pats her hand one more time, then stands.

"You leaving?" She braces for him to ask, just ask, if she wants to come with him. Then, she will say no, and then they will argue, and then Hermes will ask them to leave, and then they will argue in the sweltering heat and turn it cold, cold, cold, until she is shivering half in hatred for him and half in suffering the blizzard they've wrought.

But her husband does not ask such; he shakes his head.

"No," he says. Then: "Come on."

"What?" She looks up at himself; he is a mystery on the best of days anymore.

"Dance with me," he says. "Seems both of us need a distraction." He smirks, which is a sign that he doesn't feel as confident as he's posturing, but the man doesn't withdraw his hand.

"Just a bit," he says, softer. There's a pleading in his eyes, and she debates for a long moment holding out, waiting long enough to make him say please. He doesn't, though, himself. Just holds out that hand, so full of promise and long memories. Some good memories; a lot of bad ones, too. Persephone knows there's plenty of distractions they've used to hide from one another. She ain't exactly sure that finding distraction in one another is exactly something better.

But she still takes his hand. It's worth a try.

* * *

Mr. Hades, himself a man too prone to rash decisions, is experiencing the consequences of one such moment at this moment. He blurted out the desire for a distraction, and he has gotten it, as his wife, queen of the upside-down and his heart aside, takes his hand. The look on her face is wary, a bit closer to placid than angry but still not quite at the gentle sort of look she'd had a long time ago.

"To this music?" She asks, one eyebrow raised. It is nothing as simple or glorious as what Orpheus once played for them; more drums than guitar, more _bam-bam_ than _la-la_.

"Why not?" he mutters, voice purposefully deep; he hopes she still finds that seductive. She smiles—and a mighty nice thing that is to see—and even lets him hold her hand, as she nuzzles up to his chest. He debates whether to put his hands on her hips or the more safe destination of her hands and shoulder, and opts for the latter, things being so delicate and fine. He can feel, pressed against her chest, her old flask; he does not bring that up either, on account of things being so delicate and fine. A wrong word here could lead her to drowning in the thing in spite.

"You really think this gonna fix things up?" She says, quiet enough that he's barely sure of the words, except in that himself has always had an uncanny gift for the hearing of things best left unsaid.

"Don't know," he answers; the truth, in all its terrible glory. His hand tightens in hers, and he tries to smile. Wishes it wasn't so difficult, that things between them weren't so royally unpredictable as they are. The royal messes, the both of them; he catches Hermes' eye as he gently rocks her back and forth by their table. Hermes' look, two eyebrows raised nearly to the heavens that all three of them feel most unwelcome in, says it plain: _why don't you try? Ain't that the point, to pick one another up and try again?_

"Mm," she says; the only word his wife, most _lamentably_ uncertain as he himself is, will offer. Still, she softens the blow of her near-silence with her head, which she places down upon his chest. If she hears his most ancient heart speed the pumping of blood older than anything else in this room but the dirt, well, she doesn't comment on that, either.

"Maybe..." He says, and the courage leaves him, and his mouth goes dry. "Might be..." he starts again; she looks up at him, knowing him all too well that such repetition is in fact a sign that what Mr. Hades says is important, quite important indeed. "Might be that I am not missing the paperwork so much," he mutters, feeling his cheeks flush like a fool who has drunk more than Hades, in fact, has. He cannot blame the alcohol on his most lamentable lack of sense; such has always been the peculiar power of his own wife's devilry.

"Hm," she hums; she worms a little bit tighter, and he feels her hand move one of his own down, lets it drape at her waist like is right and proper of a man who claims his wife.

"Mayhap," she says, quiet; "this is a good distraction."

And Mr. Hades,hunty fool though he is, holds his wife tighter; can't say much in response to that, himself knowing all too well how sensitive things between them may be, and how often his tin-plated tongue has cut their threads more than once. But he does hold her a bit closer, and hopes that expresses it well enough.

* * *

Persephone and her husband are dancing, right and proper slow, despite the song being one for young people, all tin-pan alley brashness. People are probably staring, but Persephone lets them stare. Doesn't care, so much. The only beat that really matters is her husband's heartbeat, which has beat just a bit faster since they started dancing together.

"You really ain't too bad on your feet," she says, because there are conversations that are harder to say, conversations about their awfulness to one another, about his awfulness with that girl, in particular; her insistence on being blitzed out of her mind, in particular. But such conversations are far too private to have in a public little run-down bar. "You sure you ain't about to steal me off, dance me home?"

She tries to say it as a joke, but her voice trembles on that last line; there have been so many years of that being the permanent, unfailing problem. So many other issues aside, but that one in particular sticks in both their craws: six months on, six months off. Tale as old as time, and never quite enough.

His mouth forms a flat line and he shakes his head, serious as he ever is. "No," he says, quiet. Then his mouth slides into what _might_ be a grin, or a grimace—on himself, it is always hard to tell. "Not yet."

She appraises him a few, long seconds; his face remains sure and placid, neither pissed nor sour, neither happy nor jubilant. She doesn't break eye contact with him as she pulls away, reaches into her dress and places the old flash on Hermes' table. Tries to convince herself she doesn't miss it as she snuggles her head underneath his chin and wraps her arms around his big old neck, feels the familiar scratch of his old whiskers as he gently leans his head against hers, lets his other hand slide on down to her waist. She still feels the taste of whiskey in her throat, but she hopes if they keep this way, that urge might die down in a bit, just a scratch.

"You think maybe it'll get easier?" He murmurs, quiet as a mouse but that voice as rumblingly ominous as a thunderstorm, whispered right into her ear. He doesn't quite clarify what might be getting easier; their addictions or their relationship or maybe just them, themselves, broken as they are.

"Don't know," she says, all soft-voiced herself. Her words are not, as such, for anyone else's ears."Suppose we ought to try. Maybe it will." She does not say _it can't get worse_ , for such is to invite the fates to guarantee that it will be so. Best to keep mum and hope. Hope is, at the end of the day, all they've got going: hope that the urges disapate with time, hope that their marriage somehow clings to life. 

"Hope so," her husband says; his lips almost press a kiss to her ear but such is a bit too far, and instead he simply grazes it, but that itself is intimate all the same. 

They dance together, the two of them; Persephone herself is not quite sure how long such passes, as the passage of time is only measured in the turn of his cheek, in the beat of his heart and hers, an awful old way to count time.

But it's a nice way to count time, too. Hard to think of the desire for the drink when she's got steps to count and a man to hold. Such has always made her a bolder thing, not needing a dose of liquid courage.

"Want me to let you go?" He asks, at some point. She grips him tighter, frowns.

"Not yet," she says, knowing that at some point she will have to say yes. But don't have to say yes now. For now, she just wants to hold him tight, and he doesn't want to go either; she can tell in the squeeze of his arms on her hips that she's his salve as much as he is hers.

Until Hermes calls last call, well, she thinks, they'll just keep on dancing. Maybe if they just hold one another long enough, it'll be alright.


End file.
